Maluolagi Tima

Maluolagi Tima Poems

Maluolagi Tima Biography

I'm currently seventeen years old and am a senior in high school. I spend a lot of my time writing poems or stories, talking with friends, working, or sleeping. I love music and literature, two crafts that I hold a semi-talented position in. I can be nice, I can be mean. It all depends.)

The Best Poem Of Maluolagi Tima

A Poet's Heart

I guess I can start with this again,
writing poems I never knew I thought.
Like dreams you never make,
nightmares you didn't want.
My writing cannot be described,
for they have meaning.
Everything is a truth thats lied,
making you guess my feeling.
Every poem and every story,
shares its own emotion.
But in my mind,
feeling is erosion.
Blowing away with the wind,
disappearing without a trace.
As if it weren't even there,
like a demon with grace.
Look into my eyes,
you can't see these words.
Because everyday I have to hide,
keep you from noticing the curse.
I don't like many of my words,
I, in truth, hate them.
But they are my life first,
and they will be my life's end.
Don't worry about what I say,
its just a thing for my day to day.
Don't try to puzzle out the riddle,
because there's always something missing in the middle.
I know I sound dumb,
and I know it seems childish, now.
But I can't keep up this run,
soon i'll have to lay down.
In my writing,
you're always looking.
Looking for my breaking point,
where my happiness and depression join.
Where the light and the dark collide,
where my life meets death inside.
I just want to let you know first,
that I find my 'talent' a curse.
It isn't a blessing,
nights full of dreaming.
My stories are nightmares,
just chopped down to air.
Don't try to figure out where they come from,
because they don't come from anywhere.
They are a reality form,
that tears my heart apart...

I don't know why I spend so much time writing,
wasting away every day, every night; just thinking.
Thinking so much of what to put down,
but then never getting it out.
I don't know where the words come from,
I guess I'll never really know until done.
Its a never ending series of flows,
here; they'll come.
There; they'll go.
I guess its because I've never tried speaking aloud,
I've got a lot to say.
So I put the down on paper,
type them on the computer.
I guess its sort of the same as speaking,
its still thoughts that I've been thinking.
They just come out of no where,
I can't tell where anymore.
But for some reason i don't care,
because I know they are my words.
Some say its God's gift to me,
to be able to blow out these rhymes.
So that through me everyone can see,
what God wants us to hear this time.
Some say its just a talent that I've developed,
one that I created in my head and it won't leave.
Its just something for me; something for myself,
its my want, its my need.
Either could be true,
but this is still my thing.
Not many in my family do this,
so that makes me happy.
Because it makes me feel different,
even though I'm as different as different can go.
It makes me happy to know that I'm 'special' in my own way,
because everyone knows that what I write is never what I say.
I've never been like my brothers,
I just kept falling farther and farther;
from them and the world,
where life and death just swirled and twirled.
I thought I'd never find myself,
never thought that I'd be able to find that relief.
I mean, I could play sports like them.
Softball was and always has been my favorite.
But I dropped sports because it just didn't feel right,
like it was a world that wasn't mine.
I love music,
I'm a vocal freak.
Its my skill,
its my throne seat.
It makes my mom happy that I can sing,
but even from her; its still my thing.
Although singing is a large part of my life,
since I've been singing for most of that time.
Its still not my place in this world,
my place is a seat, a notebook, a pencil, and my own words.
Thats where I belong,
thats where I feel strong.
That world is my world,
this was my world first.
And forever in my heart and soul,
it will be world last.
I feel more open,
more free.
Its my own personal lesson,
for only me to hear; only me to see.
I guess you can call me crazy,
but its the only world I know,
the only world I have.
These words,
these flows,
these poems,
my songs.
They are mine and mine alone,
because I know that I did them on my own.
They make me happy,
make me sad.
Make me feel,
and make me real.
But most of all,
what no one will understand.
What no one else will see.
My writing… it what makes me; me.

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